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“... and we’ll get you a fob for the perimeter sensors,” Shep says, ticking off another item on his datapad’s checklist, “as I think I remember someone saying you like to slink off.”
“Slink off?”
The toothpick in Crosshair’s mouth shifts from one corner of his mouth to the other. He enunciates his words slowly, yet carefully. Right on the border between antagonistic and disbelieving. He is slowly collecting luxuries – a jar of toothpicks, and now, unrestricted access to the island – and doesn’t intend to hinder his freedoms within the strange new life his brothers have been leading.
“I understand a man’s need for alone time,” the island elder ribs back, smiling at his ‘pad. “Little girls are a lot of work.”
Crosshair crosses his arms. Now only slightly defensive. “No, she’s not…” He scoffs. “I’m not–”
Shep waves an amused and dismissive hand, chuckling quietly. Given this is only day two with Crosshair’s feet on solid ground, he will take everything he can get, even if it presently includes teasing. It’s an improvement from the tension of Havoc Marauder last night when they flew in. It’s a huge improvement from the four walls of a prison cell.
Anything is better than being alone.
“I’ll get AZI-3 to set up your fob,” explains Shep. He tucks his datapad under one arm, then leans to the side slightly, looking Crosshair up and down. “Did your brothers make you an appointment with the nurse?”
Eyes narrowing slightly, Crosshair shakes his head. He finds himself shrinking into his shoulders under the other man’s gaze.
Shep ducks his head, asking quietly, “Do you want me to? I don’t have to tell them, and you know, confidentiality and all that. She’s very nice. A young Twi’lek lass.”
“I’m fine.”
Now Crosshair’s tone is definitely antagonistic. He also supplied his answer far too quickly. He also suppresses the urge to steady his shaking hand at his side.
But thank the stars, Shep lets it go, even if there is a worried crease to his brow. “Alright,” he agrees. “You just let me know. That fob shouldn’t take long. You get your bearings today, then find AZI down in the workshop beachside.”
Shep then lets Crosshair go, out of the warm atmosphere of the other man’s living room, and into Pabu’s open island air. His mind supplies to him automatically: the air speed is a gentle 8 knots due east, there are 21 people in the town’s main square, and two sets of their eyes are upon him.
Hunter and Wrecker.
The two clones are leaning against the hull of Havoc Marauder, where they landed it last night, sharing their morning caf together. They both glance at Crosshair as he leaves Shep’s hut, then their eyes follow him as he traverses the square, down towards the beach. They don’t follow him.
He tries to let it roll off his back. He tries to believe the island’s atmosphere around him.
He tries to believe that, after everything, he’s here. He’s not alone. He’s not dead. He’s not a slave to anyone, or to anything.
He tries to reconcile the fact they let him onto Havoc Marauder again in the first place. He tries not to ‘slink’, as Shep described it, like how he slunk onto the ship last night, thanks to Omega’s stalwart defence of him to Hunter and Wrecker.
He tries not to look at his feet. He tries not to feel the weight of his shoulders.
Later, he tries not to roll his eyes at AZI-3’s bumbling when Crosshair appears in the workshop. The droid is not manning the hut alone; it contains a small troop of the island’s residents who are tinkering with, fixing, or building different assortments of items. Crosshair spies fishing rods, power converters, datapads, and medical equipment alike. AZI seems to have found himself well-fitted to assist down here. He sounds almost human-like as he awkwardly excuses himself to attend Crosshair's query at the front counter. Hence the eye rolling.
“Ah!” says the droid cheerily. His body does its signature spin on its axis, like a celebratory expression at Crosshair’s arrival. “It is good to see you well, CT-9904. I was informed of your recent arrival and defection from the Empire.”
Crosshair’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes widen. Tenfold, as a few of the workshop’s occupants give him a few sideways glances. He clears his throat, giving the droid a look that says: really?
AZI either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He continues on, oblivious, “I have prepared your perimeter fob per Master Hazard’s instructions.”
The droid fishes the device out from a shelf on the workshop counter, offering it to Crosshair with a pleased twinkle of his eyes – or whatever passes for such an expression on the face of a droid.
He tries not to think about the literal symbol of freedom he is being handed. By a Kaminoan medical droid no less.
“You are required to take the fob, CT-9904,” AZI points out, at Crosshair’s notable pause. He hovers closer somewhat, his servos whirring expectantly.
Crosshair’s eyes move between the fob, the droid, and his shaking hand.
“It’s… Crosshair.”
“Designation: CT-9904. Member of Clone Force 99.”
Crosshair’s heart skips a beat, then he sighs. He supposes it will do. Anything is better than how his day went yesterday. So he takes the fob – with his heart fluttering anew as his fingers close around the simple, yet heavy, device.
“I have also been instructed to offer my full suite of services to you,” AZI goes on, now the fob is in Crosshair’s possession, as he was tasked to do. Crosshair pockets it quietly, then looks back at the droid, his lips pressed into a line. “This includes medicine, including minor procedures, training modules, repair manuals, including for your modified 773 Firepuncher rifle–”
The list goes on, and on, and on.
Crosshair tries, and fails, to get a word in edgewise. Mainly because, like the fob, the weight of the droid’s words are much heavier when considering the intentions behind them. Shep gave Crosshair full, unrestricted access to Pabu. Now someone, probably Hunter and Wrecker, at Omega’s prompting, have given Crosshair access to a functional medical-turned-operations droid. And… it sounds like, also his rifle?
…They kept his rifle?
“Further to this impressive suite of my capabilities,” the droid is still talking, “I have also been requested to conduct preliminary body scans for anticipated analysis by medical staff. Miss Shiri T’rergir is an island resident and a fully qualified medic–”
“No,” interrupts Crosshair. Firmly. Antagonistically.
At least the droid won’t read into Crosshair’s measured response. Some of the workshop occupants do, however, with more awkward sideways glances shot their way. This makes Crosshair grumble and gesture for them to move outside.
Though the droid remains blissfully oblivious, he follows obediently, and then continues without missing a beat, “Body scans will not be taken without your explicit consent, CT-9904. There is no cause for alarm.”
“I’m not alarmed,” Crosshair spits back. He has a bit more freedom to get irritated at the droid, now they are out of earshot of other people. “I just want to know where my rifle is. You mentioned my 773.”
“Onboard Havoc Marauder,” replies AZI.
Crosshair hisses a sigh, disbelieving. Slightly bemused. “Of course it is.”
The droid regards him unblinkingly. He clearly does not see the problem. He doesn’t even try, but to his credit, AZI also doesn’t try to push the agenda about medical scans again. Just like Shep didn’t.
“Do you require any of my services immediately?” he asks instead.
“No.”
This time, Crosshair’s response is a lot more measured. As well as quiet, and agreeable.
AZI’s farewell is also agreeable as he departs back into the workshop. He seems perfectly happy immersing himself among projects, and the island’s residents, once more.
Crosshair tries not to let himself realise that, once again, he is alone. Standing outside of the beachside workshop. Standing apart from Havoc Marauder and her residents further topside on the island. Swept up by the ocean breeze without a jacket, other than the one Omega presented him with on Lau.
He tries to let it roll off his back. He tries to feel the weight of the fob in his pocket. He tries to envision where on the island he could go to escape these feelings.
He also tries to fight off the sudden wave of dizziness that washes over him. Alarmed, Crosshair steadies himself on the doorframe of the workshop. A coldness quickly seeps into his chest, as well as a wave of anxiety.
Did the Empire do something to him?
Did Hunter, or Wrecker? Did AZI-3?
“CT-9904!”
He groans pointedly at AZI’s voice as it carries out of the hut again. Of course the droid notices him having a moment, but not any other part of their interaction. Even through his dizziness, Crosshair waves him off. But the droid approaches, its eyes looking Crosshair up and down, exactly like Shep did earlier.
“Your blood sugar levels are dropping rapidly,” the droid reports.
“I told you not to scan me,” growls Crosshair. He leans heavily against the doorframe, giving an annoyed huff as his head continues to spin.
“I did not.”
Crosshair rolls his eyes, then regrets it, grimacing instead. He knows how to steady his breathing, but with the coldness trickling through his chest, he can’t quite seem to get a handle on it. Nor to properly steady himself against the hut with how his hand keeps shaking.
“Omega, your timing is most excellent!” the droid suddenly says, making Crosshair grimace more. He doesn’t need the kid right now. He’s just having a moment, he can handle it–
“Crosshair!”
“CT-9904 is experiencing a–”
“I know, AZI! Hang on, Crosshair. You should sit down.”
Omega’s steady hands guide Crosshair to sit against the side of the workshop hut. The effect is immediate, with the dizzy spell passing. But it makes the kid’s worried expression become apparent. She is kneeling across from him, her hand resting on his knee. Her hair has fallen slightly into her eyes, what with the sea breeze tugging it about.
“Crosshair?” she asks hesitantly.
“What?” he grumbles back.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m…”
He is going to say ‘fine’, but with Omega sitting eye-to-eye to him, he finds himself glancing away. Down at the ground. Down at where his hand rests, splayed palm-down across the concrete, while shaking. He closes it into a fist, then leans his head back against the hut.
He tries to let it roll off his back. He really tries.
But Omega leans in expectantly, and AZI-3 hovers infuriatingly behind her.
“I… should… see the nurse,” Crosshair concludes slowly.
Omega’s worried expression morphs into a knowing smile. Quickly followed by a wry grin. “Yeah, you should see the nurse,” she echoes. “Want us to take you?”
Given the sudden dizzy spell, and Omega tracking him down so aptly, Crosshair doesn’t suppose he has a choice. And because it’s been mentioned even more aptly by three different parties now, who are all unrelated to one another: Shep, AZI-3, and now, Omega.
“Fine.”
Crosshair’s agreement is a mere sigh, and he remains a somewhat unwilling participant during his escort, even as Omega smooths over his appointment at the clinic’s hut. She speaks to the receptionist like a long lost friend. After all, Omega was also an occupant of the four walls of a prison cell. And yet, this place is a home to her. Crosshair’s brothers settled here with her, and without him.
He tries to let it roll off his back…
“Are you okay?”
Omega takes the seat next to Crosshair. Her feet dangle off the edge of the chair because they don’t quite reach the ground. She kicks them absentmindedly, peering up at Crosshair from underneath her hair, which she tucks to one side.
“I know you didn’t really want the appointment, but…” The young girl gestures at the scenery. The clinic is similar in appearance to Shep’s hut at Pabu’s summit; cheery paintings of the beachfront scenery line the walls, with a matching creamy paint scheme. It barely looks like a medical centre, even for a small community like what is on the island. “It’s not so bad,” Omega concludes. “I had mine yesterday, after we got in. Then I got to see my friends.” Her hand moves to the new gear complementing her person, namely, the new shell necklace that hugs her neck.
“I slept,” offers Crosshair dryly.
“I know.” Omega kicks her feet some more, giving AZI a brief wave as he disappears into one ofi the clinic’s rooms across the way. Apparently the droid has various jobs here. “You look a little better for it. Not as grumpy.”
Crosshair’s lips set into a line again. He quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at her.
But Omega doesn’t smile; she isn’t joking with him. She’s… concerned?
…For him?
His mouth drying, Crosshair searches for what he is supposed to say here, exactly. But he is saved by the bell; the promised Twi’lek medic summons him. Crosshair has been through plenty of medical exams, on Kamino, during his service to the Republic, and then the Empire. He is no stranger to the poking and prodding, including the scans he gives AZI-3 consent to perform. But it doesn’t mean he has to like it.
Nor the medic’s assessment after the fact.
“... the main thing I’m worried about,” Shiri says, noting off her datapad like Shep was doing earlier in the morning, “is your weight. There’s some historical data here, so it’s not like it’s totally abnormal, but your WTH analysis is… well, it's a little concerning.”
The medic sets her datapad down, then leans forward in her chair. She hooks her fingers together over her crossed leg.
She concludes, “You need to put on some weight, Crosshair. It’ll stop your dizzy spells, and it might help your tremor, too.”
And although Crosshair shouldn’t, he also tries to let this roll off his back, too. He didn’t want the appointment. He didn’t want to be picked apart and analysed again. He didn’t want any part of his so-called ‘safety’ here documented, and riddled with perception.
He didn’t want to be saved.
He didn’t–
“I’ll put together a calorie surplus regime,” the nurse continues, oblivious to the weight of Crosshair’s shoulders, “and there’s certain prescriptions we can use to support you, if it comes to that.”
Shiri smiles pleasantly again, searching for a response, or any sort of reaction, by shifting forward in her chair.
Then she asks, “Is there any other support I can get you, Crosshair?”
“No,” he replies slowly. The opposite of antagonistic and disbelieving. “Not yet.” He clenches his shaking hand into a fist, letting his shoulders drop somewhat. “Thank you.”
Returning to the foyer of the clinic presents Crosshair with half of a surprise: Omega is still sitting and waiting for him, with her feet still dangling off the chair. But waiting with her are Hunter and Wrecker. Wrecker is leant back in his chair, arms crossed, feet kicked out, with his eyes drooped closed. Hunter, in comparison, is leant forward, with his elbows on his knees. There is a troubled expression on his face, which darkens when Crosshair emerges from the other room.
Half of a dry remark hovers on his lips; something about his health suddenly being an active interest, but he swallows it down. The appointment drained him.
Being here is draining him. In the open air. Not alone. Not dead.
“There ya are!”
Wrecker jumps up, greeting Crosshair with only half of his usual spunk. He supposes it’s better than the glare he was first levelled with last night. Omega springs to her feet similarly, grinning, and she immediately launches into a spiel about how Shiri patched up her grazed knee once and it didn’t hurt one bit. Hunter lags behind, but follows them in a crawl as they exit the clinic, and start wandering.
“C’mon,” Wrecker leads the group back towards the island’s summit, where Havoc Marauder rests, “we got somethin’ for ya. Now you’re all cleared an’ everythin’.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” returns Crosshair dryly.
He tries to let it all roll off his back. The appointment. Hunter’s irate shadow. The sea breeze tickling the prickly regrowth of his hair. The kid bounding at his side. The weight of his shoulders – or not, according to the nurse.
Crosshair really does try.
And he has to give some credit where it’s due, Wrecker is also trying. What with how Crosshair is unceremoniously presented with the weapons kit for his original 773 Firepuncher rifle out from the confines of Havoc Marauder. The big guy grins when Crosshair expertly slugs the weapon out of her case.
Crosshair points it purposefully away from the direction of any nearby Pabu citizens, and Hunter.
And Omega.
And Havoc Marauder.
The weight of the sniper rifle is a larger comfort than Crosshair anticipates it to be. His hands still fit perfectly into the grooves he indented during the Clone Wars. His mind automatically evens out his breathing to account for his extensive training with her. His body still remembers how to shift and adjust, to be her perfect counterweight.
However, unfortunately for Crosshair’s body, it is also presently underweight. Recovering from the aftermath of the four walls of a prison cell. Prone to dizzy spells.
It is, like Crosshair is, only merely trying.
At least this time, when Crosshair wobbles and tries to steady himself, he’s instead steadied first by Wrecker’s unwavering hand. The other clone grabs Crosshair’s shoulder and sweeps up the rifle in one fluid motion, making an “oop” sound as he moves. Here, Crosshair is not able to roll Wrecker’s hand off his back. Not when it’s the only thing keeping him from greeting the ground with his face.
“Whoa, okay,” Wrecker declares, “ya need some food in ya, then we’ll let ya slink off to go shoot it and… and stuff.”
He wants to say that he doesn’t slink. He wants to deny their hospitality. He wants to avoid looking at them after such a display of poignant weakness; both now, and since their stiff flight home last night. He wants to let it all roll off his back…
And yet.
He’s here. He’s breathing the open air. He’s not merely trying, no, he is doing it.
“Okay,” says Crosshair slowly. But surely.
He sees Omega exchange an eager glance with Wrecker, whose hand hasn’t been shaken from Crosshair’s shoulder.
“Yeah!” Omega pumps her fist, giving it a triumphant shake to match her grin. “We can show you all this food! There’s sooo much seafood. It’s all fresh. And… and one time Wrecker fished up this huge Goliath! And it took us weeks to eat it all!”
“Yeah, Cross!” Wrecker now uses his vantage point, and Crosshair’s lingering unsteadiness, to give him a slight shake. “We’ll get some meat back on your bones in no time!”
It’s all Crosshair has him in, after the previous tumultuous 24 hours of his life, to lean into Wrecker’s steady hand and give a nod. The conversation about food and settling in continues on without him, as his dizzy spell tapers off.
At least, everything continues on without him for now. He will catch up in due course, and settle in, once the road to recovery is more well-travelled.
At least, he will try.